A couple of nights ago my wife and I were sat at home, slightly inebriated, and very…VERY hungry.
We had been going back and forth about what we wanted to eat. It was our Friday night and were were definitely going to be eating bad, shitty, unhealthy, delicious food.
After much debating I made a decision and said, “I’m going to order a pizza”.
“Oh, OK”, she replied.
There was a pause.
“Do you want one?”
Oh how we laughed!
Partly because it was funny…but mostly because it was true.
I’m currently in the process of growing a beard. I don’t have a reason other than I’ve always wanted to grow one.
I won’t lie….I look a bit like Santa.
Sigh…..
Anyway, this morning I mentioned to my wife that a couple of the moustache hairs are tickling my nostrils and driving me crazy. My wife suggested holding my finger across my top lip all day to prevent it tickling me anymore.
Yeah, that’s not a great idea in a country full of people that like to issue out high fives.
These hairs are making me führer-ous
I hate my days off.
Up until a month ago my wife and I had the same days off work; Tuesdays and Wednesdays. However, her shift changed and now she has the traditional Saturday and Sunday off.
To many, the thought of having time off work without their significant other is a dream come true, but there’s only so much I enjoy doing alone…and it’s getting really sore.
Now, I hate to be sickly sweet here, but my wife and I have an awesome marriage. Spending time without her is like watching anything with the Kardashians in it; a pointless waste of time. In addition, Tuesday is the day I Skype my family back in England so my wife is missing out on that too.
I would love to say something hilariously sarcastic and biting about in-laws and how she’s dodged a bullet, but alas…she really does love my family and vice versa.
I’m telling you, anyone looking in on our marriage from the outside is usually reaching for a bucket.
So, today is Tuesday, my wife left early for work, and I Skyped my family at the normal prearranged times. Due to the eight hour time difference, the Skype calls are very early in the morning so, historically (well, for the last month at least), I go back to sleep afterwards. However, instead of having a nap for a couple of hours, I usually end up sleeping for ages and missing most of the day.
Either that or I end up down a YouTube rabbit hole and still end up doing none of the things I had planned to do.
Yet I always seem to end up sore.
This is all made worse by a fuzzy head usually brought on by oversleeping or concentrating on a screen without blinking.
Well, today was going to be different. Today I was going to do some washing [laundry], tidy up, go to the gym and get my hair cut. So today I set myself an alarm to only sleep for an hour.
Genius, right?
Wrong.
Instead of only sleeping for an hour, I decided to snooze button my way through four hours of sleep.
It’s become another typical Tuesday…or, should I say ‘Snoozeday’? Huh? Get it? Snoozeday? Anyone?
(holds up hand for a high five he will never get, and all that can be heard is the sound of crickets as a lone tumbleweed rolls by)
I don’t even have the time or the energy to get my hair cut. This is an activity that involves me sitting down on the way to the Barber, sitting down while they do all the work, and then sitting down all the way home…and I still can’t be bothered.
Instead I’m slouched in bed, looking at the clock and justifying to myself that I simply don’t have the time to do anything.
Well, except write this post.
Priorities.
Now, where’s that box of tissues?
A couple of days ago, my wife and I attended a Customer Service Excellence awards ceremony. This was for employees across Las Vegas who had been nominated by their employers for outstanding customer service. My wife had been nominated for an award and I went along with her because, a) it was my day off, and b) they had a free breakfast buffet.
Oh, and I was proud of my wife, or whatever.
Anyway, the ceremony opened with the MC – from a local radio station – telling some jokes, telling us how honoured he was to be hosting the awards and desperately plugging his radio station. Well, I say MC…but on the programme guide it was listed as ‘EmCee’.
Does America thinks ‘MC’ is shorthand for ‘EmCee’?
‘OK’ is shorthand for Okay. ‘BBQ’ is shorthand for Barbecue. But ‘MC’ is NOT shorthand for EmCee; it usually stands for Mic Controller…on in this case, Master of Ceremonies (although ‘Master’ was a bit of a stretch).
(rolls eyes)
At the time I was thinking it could’ve stood for something else in which the ‘M’ could’ve been ‘Massive’, or ‘Moronic’, and the ‘C’ could’ve been the only thing ‘C’ could’ve been.
Clowns maybe?
Nah.
Anyway, next on the list of activities listed on the official programme was ‘The Pledge Of Allegiance’. I was excited for this as I’d never been part of a pledge before so I was intrigued to see it.
I didn’t have to wait long.
Soon, the ‘EmCee’ declared it was time for the pledge and, as one, the auditorium full of people all stood up around me, put their hands over their hearts and started chanting in unison.
“I pledge allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America, and to the Republic for which it stands, one Nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all”
It was a little unnerving that everyone just got up and started chanting together, but it’s the pledge of allegiance so I half expected it. It was like The Lord’s Prayer at school which I still know to this day because it was drilled into us, day after day, after day.
Now, you may have noticed that I’ve emboldened and underlined the first part of the pledge above; this was the ONLY part of the pledge that I actually knew – from American movies and TV shows – so I had no choice but to mime the rest like the imposter I was. I felt completely out of place as everyone, including my wife, went into autopilot.
But that wasn’t the weirdest thing. Not by a long shot. No, the weirdest thing was the fact that every single person in the place had turned slightly to the left so they were facing the American flag positioned on the left side of the stage. I thought I had successfully fooled everyone with my hand over my heart and the opening and closing of my mouth like a guppy.
Nope.
As the only twat still facing forward, I was a fish out of water…and I looked like one.
I have to say, it was all a bit creepy. I’ve become accustomed to the weirdness and eccentricities of American life, but nothing prepared me for this. Everyone outside the USA knows how dedicated the Americans are to their pledge, but the whole flag thing just freaked me out!
This got me thinking though; what if there isn’t a flag in the room? What then?
In America, there’s always a solution.
This weekend my wife and I took a road trip to northern Nevada. It was awesome and NOT the basis of today’s blog…don’t worry. This isn’t a travel blog after all; I only write about shit that either A) happens to me, B) pisses me off, or C) has a combination of A and B.
There are a lot of C’s in this blog, I can tell you.
(insert smirky face here)
Anyway, back to my reason for today’s post. On the way back from the land of fucking nothing for miles and miles, we detoured to a natural warm spring in Duckwater.
This warm spring has been referred to as the largest in the United States and is located on land owned by the Shoshone Indian tribe.
In essence, this place is in the middle of fucking NOWHERE.
After turning off the main highway, it was another million miles along a road that I can only describe as the beginning of almost every horror movie ever. This was followed by a gravel ‘road’ that eventually led to the warm springs and the need for repair to the underside of your car.
We didn’t see another vehicle in either direction for almost an hour. Not one. I was genuinely fucking scared.
Here are the warm springs on Google maps.
Zoom out. Seriously, do it.
Do you see just how much ‘fuck all’ there is around?
I wasn’t joking when I say we saw NO-ONE!
As we parked up in the completely desolate parking lot (or ‘area of gravel’), another car suddenly pulled up next to us. Wait, what? Where did they come from?
Out of the car jumped two young ladies who, it soon became abundantly clear, were more than just friends. I was a little bit disappointed at their arrival because I was looking forward to romantically dipping in the warm spring with my wife. It wasn’t a huge ask, considering the fact it was in the middle of buttfuck nowhere and had taken us an hour and a half out of our way, but that’s fine. No, really, it’s FINE!
I shot my wife a look that said “For fuck’s sake!” while our new friends chattered to each other as they merrily collected their shit from their car and joyfully trotted to the water’s edge.
Oh well, it was what it was. To be honest, it was still lovely. My wife and I had a bit of a swim, joined by our friends (who aren’t just friends) and we even had a bit of a laugh and joke with them. I couldn’t really be a complete dick about them being there too because, after all, we were also interrupting their romantic warm spring dip.
After half an hour or so my wife and I decided to get out as we had a 4 hour drive back to Vegas. We picked up our stuff by the side of the springs and walked back to the car, dripping sacred Shoshone water all over sacred Shoshone land. When we got to the car I looked around and saw nothing was coming from miles around; no glint of vehicle metal on the horizon and no dust clouds in their wake. I glanced back at the springs and our new friends were still swimming and chatting in the water.
“I’m going to change back into my clothes here”, I said to my wife, as I couldn’t be arsed to traipse back to the restroom (wooden hut) to change out of my wet swim shorts.
My wife looked around and agreed it made sense. Besides, I could hide behind the car door, away from the prying eyes of two young women who really had no interest in my penis anyway.
Behind me was just desert as far as the eye could see. I was good to go.
So I gripped the elastic waistband and dropped my shorts to the ground in one rapid movement. This was no easy feat considering they were soaked through and sticking to me like a Jewish mother.
It was quite nice to feel the cool Nevadan breeze tickle my untickled areas.
As I stood up, miraculously one of the girls was out of the water rummaging through their belongings, 10 feet away from my manhood swinging1 freely in the breeze! I dropped to a half squat position behind the car door quicker than if I’d been swiftly kicked in the nuts. I was almost uppercutted by the door.
Is uppercutted a word? Meh, it’ll do.
I couldn’t believe this girl had decided that NOW was the time she needed her phone, cigarettes, rubber fist or whatever.
My wife was in bits with laughter.
I decided to sit inside the car and remove the rest of my shorts and in no time I was completely naked, in the middle of sacred Shoshone Indian country.
At this point my wife said, though stifled laughter “Oh, I don’t believe it.”
“What?”, I barked?
She pointed behind me and attempted some words that failed her. I turned and looked through the car windows and, sure enough, there was another car trundling down the gravel road towards us.
They were greeted by me, sat there, door open, naked and wet.
Enjoy your swim.
1 Who am I kidding?
My wife is currently attending her second physical therapy session, having torn the ACL (Anterior Cruciate Ligament) in both knees a couple of months ago.
Yes, BOTH knees. At the same time.
It’s been a fun few weeks.
Anyway, I decided to take a photo of her during today’s session – as you do – and after having taken a seat, a member of staff quickly approached me.
I knew what he was going to say.
He wanted to advise me that, for legal reasons, I had to ensure no other patients were present in the photo.
I knew it…but I was so annoyed that I was being ‘educated’ that I looked him square in the eyes and put on my best ‘in disbelief’ face.
“You’ve got to be kidding!”
He wasn’t.
I had to show him the photo.
Seriously.
What does ‘ the legal system’ think I’m going to do with the photo?
Maybe I’ll post it online and then tag these people randomly in the hope I somehow correctly select them from the 1.65 billion users currently on Facebook?
Maybe ‘the legal system’ is worried I might want to keep it for the wank bank?
Yeah right. These people should be so lucky. These people would be able to stop the vinegar strokes. They would kill any degree of rigidity.
(looks down)
*slap* *jiggle* *slap*
Nothing.
Jesus, it’s just a photo; it’s not like I’m aiming at them through a high powered rifle laser scope.
But joking aside, I know what the problem is; the physical therapy centre doesn’t want to be sued for unauthorised use of photography of their patients without their expressed permission.
Either that, or the member of staff wanted to check the sweet photo I took of my wife.
I can’t blame him.
(adds it to the wank bank)
Maybe I’ll counter sue these delicate background babies for photo bombing my photo. Had they considered that, huh? Had they??
I didn’t give THEM permission to be in MY photo.
But seriously, what next? Should I expect to be contacted by distraught family members of people featured in the backgrounds of photos from my childhood? There are literally hundreds of those lurking in photo albums at my Mother’s house.
There was a LOT of skin in the background of those beach photos.
And a LOT of Speedos.
Tight, miniscule Speedos
*slap* *jiggle* *sl…
Wait, where’d he go?
In the past I used to believe that America was home to some of the dumbest people on the planet. After all, they have no clue about anything outside America and their grasp of sarcasm and humour (or ‘humor’) is as tight as a slut’s vagina.
But after meeting my wife, who is from Las Vegas, I’ve had a lot more exposure to them (Americans, not sluts’ vaginas) and I’ve come to realise that this belief isn’t true. I mean, it’s true of a lot of Americans, but it’s not fair to tar them all with the same brush.
Since my wife came to England I’ve started seeing the country through her eyes and cracks are beginning to form. I’m slowly noticing that we are a lot more flawed as a nation than I realised, or cared to admit. It’s like peeking behind the curtain at a magic show to see levers, pulleys and a white rabbit taking a colossal dump into a top hat.
England is also home to some of the dumbest people on the planet.
Case in point:
Last night, on the London Underground, my wife and I got off the train at Victoria station and shuffled with the masses towards the two upward escalators leading to the surface. There were two guys in front of us and as we approached the escalators, one of the guys took the left escalator and the other took the right.
Neither of us paid any attention until one of the guys started talking to the other. With a distance of around six feet between them and the combined noise of the escalator and the throng of chatting commuters, I should say one started shouting to the other.
Guy 1 – “So what happened next?”
Guy 2 – “What?”
Guy 1 – “I SAID, WHAT HAPPENED NEXT?”
Guy 2 – “Oh, right. Well she decided she was going to work Saturday instead”
Guy 1 – “She was going to what?”
Guy 2 – “PARDON?”
Guy 1 – “SHE WAS GOING TO WHAT?”
Guy 2 – “WORK SATURDAY INSTEAD!”
Guy 1 – “AH, I THOUGHT SHE MIGHT”
Guy 2 – “WHAT?”
I couldn’t believe it. These two guys were together! It wasn’t that busy in the station which meant they weren’t herded accidentally onto separate escalators; they’d CHOSEN to do that.
I looked back at my wife who was staring at them in disbelief. She looked back at me, rolled her eyes and mouthed the words “Why the fuck?”
As we reached the top of the escalator my wife shared her thoughts with me.
For fuck’s sake England!
When an American living here rants about the sheer stupidity of people around her, it’s time to sit up and pay attention.
Sat in the cab on the way to the airport, we stopped off at a cash machine to draw out some money to actually pay the driver.
I collected my funds, got back in the taxi and opened my wallet to put the notes in.
“Ha”, I said to my American wife as I wedged the English tenners next to the US Dollars already in there, “this money is like us”.
In a strange, romantic way it made me think of us, together in this wallet we call life.
She peered at the notes and said “What, pale?”
It’s true, we really need this holiday.
My wife, being from the United States, needed to set up a bank account as every transaction in which she used her American debit card was causing her to be glared at like she was robbing the place. Even the nice ladies at the supermarket suddenly transform into ferocious interrogation officers, scrutinising the information on her card and I.D. like a dieter with a packet of biscuits.
Also, she’ll soon be working and companies prefer to pay directly into an account rather than give cash or cheques directly to employees, maybe because this involves actually touching them or something; I don’t know.
Needless to say, she needed a bank account.
So, it made sense that I set her up with the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) that I’ve been with all my life. This would make it easier if we ever need to transfer funds to each other and I have a better understanding of how that bank (sorry, ‘building society’) operates.
We had originally set up an account for her online two weeks prior and had received instant approval, but the paperwork had not arrived in the promised “3-5 working days”.
I assume they use the term ‘Working days’ with a sense of irony.
This resulted in us calling them only to be told that she needed to visit a branch of the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) in order for them to validate her identification. Thanks for telling us. I have no issue with visiting a branch in person, but don’t allow us to arrange it online if we still need to physically go to the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) anyway. Amazon doesn’t ask us to go and pick up our item from their depot after ordering something online, and if this is the trend of things to come I’ll be fucked if I’m buying anything from DFS.
It’s online for a reason people.
I assume they use the term ‘Applying for a Flexaccount online is easy’ with a sense of irony.
But, having said that, we also needed to post a Christmas gift to America AND arrange for my wife to get a haircut, so it made sense to park the car in the centre of town as all three of these were very close to each other. This was ideal as we were heading up to London (for a concert in the evening) and we wanted to leave as early as possible so my wife could at least spend some time in the capital beforehand.
We should’ve only be about half an hour, maybe an hour…maximum. Then we could’ve gone and caught our train.
So we drove into town, parked at a nearby car park and I walked over to put change in the ticket machine. I reached into my pocket and produced three £1 coins.
“That’ll be more than enough” I thought to myself.
‘Up to 2 hours – £3.10’
I’m sorry, what? Are you fucking kidding me? £3.10?? I don’t need two hours! And who the hell comes up with an idiotic price like that?
I was just about to grudgingly get another £1 from the car when I saw the words ‘No Change Given’ on the machine. Aha, that explains the cock-eyed price. They were relying on people like me not having the random shrapnel needed to pay for the privilege of parking my car. Why not make it £3.88 so at least it covers all the coins in one transaction?
Wankers.
Basically it was going to cost me four quid to park my car for half an hour or so.
No fucking way.
I gave my wife the parcel for the post office and told her I’d re-park in the local supermarket which was £1 for 2 hours; we’d then meet outside the post office and visit the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) and hair salon together.
Off she went.
I drove to the supermarket (a 2 minute drive that took 15 minutes in pre-Christmas Saturday traffic), parked up, paid the £1 and walked 10 minutes back to the Post Office. There, as expected, was my wife, but she was not looking happy.
It seemed the Post Office wouldn’t accept her debit card.
Of course.
I went in, paid, glared at the unapologetic assistant for doing everything but assist, and we left.
I assume they use the term ‘Assistant’ with a sense of irony.
We then crossed the road to the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) before realising the documentation she needed was still in the car.
Of course.
So we began the 10 minute walk back to the car, stopping off at the hair salon to arrange an appointment for my wife to get a trim. This salon was always open on a Sunday which was perfect for us as time was ticking.
Not this Sunday though. This Sunday they were shut. No reason; they just were.
Of course.
We left, walked the rest of the way to the car and drove back through the traffic to the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) where, of course, I wasn’t allowed to park.
Fuck it, I was going to wait outside. All my wife needed now, as she headed into the bank (sorry, ‘building society’), was a shotgun and a balaclava for me to really look the part.
She had been in there less than a minute when I spied a traffic warden in my rear view mirror walking up the street. Oh come on!
I calmly and furiously moved into the car park opposite and sat in my car poised and ready to drive away and/or punch the shit out of someone if challenged.
After about three minutes my wife came out shaking her head. It seemed the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) weren’t happy with her American I.D. card and driving licence as proof of identification as advised by the friendly customer service representative we’d called the day before. Apparently she needed to produce her passport.
I assume they use the term ‘Customer service’ with a sense of irony.
Usually this would result in us rolling our eyes, but considering we were already late for getting to the capital, we were starting to get pissed off. We drove home, picked up her passport, drove back and arrived at the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) 40 minutes later. In she went again. I parked up and cracked my knuckles in readiness.
This time she was in there about 10 minutes before coming out; a face like thunder. It appears that, due to money laundering regulations, she’s unable to open a bank (sorry, ‘building society’) account for the first three months of living in the UK. Something that could’ve been mentioned A BIT EARLIER ON DON’T YOU THINK?!?!
What a massive shitting fucking pisslicking waste of time.
I use the term ‘Fucking morons’ with no sense of irony.
Well, I suppose everything comes in threes. The post office, the bank (sorry, ‘building society’) and the hair salon. Surely that’s the end of it?
Nope.
We got to the station and the queue was just long enough for us to miss the train by 2 minutes resulting in a half hour wait for the next one.
The carriage was nice and quiet except for the three girls sat RIGHT in front of us who didn’t stop talking fat sweaty hairy bollocks throughout the entire journey.
At the concert we were at the front (result!) and when someone at the back decided to throw their drink forward it just happened to miss everyone except my wife and I. Mmm, eye-stingingly refreshing.
After the concert the tube was delayed due to someone being taken ill on another train. Once the ambulance had finally arrived and sorted it out 15 minutes later, we were advised that the train would now be delayed due to someone on another train pulling the fucking emergency cord.
We should’ve known this morning, when the alarm didn’t go off, that it was going to be a fantastic day.
Head In A Blender 